Wash day in the Ballyer

After the flats
that became a dive,
a place that low-life scum
crawled and died.
And junkies shot themselves
as high as sky

After the roundabout
once a playground
that filled the air with
laughter and delicious terror.

A pervert
died under the
swings, beaten to death.
By uncles with knuckles
tattooed in prison hues
of love and hate.

Past the concrete
and the broken razor wire,
the edge of garbage and
disappointment scented air
you can look back and see
my world with different eyes.

You see the face of the sky
squinting between the gritty
grey towers.
The smiling face
of a custard pie sun
glinting off a thousand tiny
windows.

The same sun that shines on
Spanish beaches and on the
condos that six gun heroes
live in

On Monday. Wash day the
Cloths drape like bunting.
Line after line,
knickers and vests, dresses
and pants.

Rainbows of red and green
and orange wave at passing
traffic.
Latex and spandex, rayon and
nylon, the uniforms of a
care- less nation.
Hanging from lines that hang
from windows,
that are nailed to the sky.

From the stubble fields you
can see up into the white and
blue.

Wash day when an aeroplane
flies low,
the scream of turbines
and the creak and click
of my neck craning to get a
better look.

To see the landing gear
coming down.

I wonder can the pilot see the
splendour of knickers
hanging off a clothes line
draped just below his line of
descent.
And then I think………I hope their clean.

-Dave Kavanagh

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